


Unfinished Business (Stays That Way For A Reason)

by ikebukuro



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Existential Smut, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot, Porn Without Plot, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikebukuro/pseuds/ikebukuro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're always going to be loose ends for each other—the unfinished business they can't bring themselves to wrap up. (Or: Bass ran as far as he could to get out from under the sudden takeover of the Republic and Miles finds himself too often, by accident or fate, just a step behind him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfinished Business (Stays That Way For A Reason)

**Author's Note:**

> There is no plot here, none whatsoever. Fair warning. This happened—I kinda apologize for it. But not really. Let me know what you think down below in the comments.

There’s a lot about this that could be considered unhealthy — unhealthy because kisses were probably meant to be a lot of things but they sure as hell shouldn’t be about _bloodletting_ , about teeth tugging at split lips and tongues dueling over the taste of something bittersweet and copper tanged; it shouldn’t be about revenge and punishment, about betrayal or disappointment and vendettas. (And sure, maybe there’s something like remorse there, like an _I missed you too_ , but it’s mostly _fury_ , underscored by ragged _sounds_ seeping between brutalized lips in no coherent thread at all, because cheap whiskey burned hollows out of their voices hours ago and they’ve been fighting since then too — shouting, screaming.) Kisses aren’t supposed to be like this — or maybe they are and they’ve been doing it wrong for thirty years, who knows, but Miles doesn’t care right then. There should be something romantic about this — but right now, there’s not.  
  
It’s all whispered curses and soon-to-be fulfilled promises of ripping each other apart in the best and worst ways — because they can, because they’ve always known how and it doesn’t matter how much blood or distance is between them, because no one does a better job of this than _them_. And it shows, in the way eager hips cant upward, or the way scarred shoulders hunch forward as they lean into each other. They kiss like drowning men — coming up for air and then diving back down into the crush, stumbling their way across the shabby bedroom, caught in each other’s pull. It’s a gravity, an undertow; they’re all rough hands and bruising grasps on moving sweat-slicked skin; they keep knocking knees, but it’s like a dance they’ve done a thousand times before and thighs spread to let something harder slip by as they press close.  
  
 _Miles._ Bass breathes it against those lips, shoves it between Miles’ teeth on the tip of his tongue and listens to the way it sticks in Miles’ throat with the groan he’s too angry to surrender. The hands scrabbling over his hips tighten and then the world tips, tilts, slides past him in a blur and he finds himself on his back on a battered couch that smells like stuffy rooms in summer.  
  
He drags ragged nails over Miles’ shoulder in retribution and hooks a leg around his waist.  
  
It’s not kind, not even close. It’s quick and fast and dirty, with Miles’ lips dragging over Bass’ throat, with his teeth crushing crimson reminders into the skin above a frantic pulse; it’s a shout of pained pleasure, loud against the clapboard walls, but not quite as damning as the way Bass _keens_ Miles’ name against a stubbled jaw. He’s confused, they both are — they’ve been confused for a decade and it’s not getting better and there are reasons they shouldn’t be doing this, wars and families and _reasons_ — but Miles doesn’t let up, doesn’t let go. They fuck like they’re dying already and maybe they are, what with the way Bass grits his teeth and shudders, sending spikes of heat through Miles’ gut and putting a razor blade to his spine. Maybe they’re dying and that’s why Miles feels like his hearts bruising itself against his ribcage and his nerves are screaming for something near as sweet as death.  
  
But there’s nothing as sweet as the way Bass’ pupils blow wide when he looks up at Miles through sweat-spiked lashes, with his lips bloodied and his breaths too quick to count. And he says, _please, please, Miles, please_ and Miles stiffens, his hips stuttering; his fingers find themselves wrapping around Bass’ cock, stroking him through the end, demanding without words that he give it up, give it all up — to Miles, _for_ Miles.  
  
And Bass does. Just like that and all at once, with a quick intake of breath and Miles’ name on his lips like a prayer, like a curse. He comes hard and falls apart, his hips jerking under Miles’ still-moving ones, his release a rush of liquid heat that seeps between Miles’ fingers and drips across his knuckles. And that’s all it takes because then it’s Miles’ turn, to fall apart, to twist Bass’ name into a mouthful of moans, to spill himself into a tight heat like a velvet-lined vice that milks him the way no one and nothing else ever could. The world narrows to this, to _Bass_ , and to this moment—vivid and ecstasy-sharp, brittle and beautiful and—fucking _perfect_. He thinks he even says it as he gives one final weak thrust and collapses, folding over Bass like a bad hand of cards. Hollowed out. Spent. He breathes in short, shallow draws and listens to the silence that isn’t really silence, Bass’ fading panting too familiar—too unforgettable—to be comforting.  
  
Unthinkingly, Miles presses his forehead against the arm of the couch, more fatalistic than usual when he wheezes, “I’m never going to get you outta my system, am I?”  
  
The body beneath him goes still and it’s only when Bass draws in a single slow, halting breath that Miles realizes he spoke aloud—but he doesn’t apologize and when Bass’ hands slide up his sides and around to his back they don’t claw so much as cling; arms band around his waist and Miles tries not to be moved—at all—when Bass presses an unexpectedly tender kiss to the hollow of his shoulder and whispers,  
  
“ _God_ , I hope not.”  
  



End file.
